


Trans-African Lullaby

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, F/M, I'm addicted to this ship, Love, Older man, One Shot, Song fic, Victorian Times, its complicated, love letter, malnessa, younger woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 18:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14982995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: From Africa, his words fluttered back to her in a letter. . .  and in the maze, Vanessa crouched in darkness and read.





	Trans-African Lullaby

_**“All night, all I hear** _   
_**All I hear’s your heart** _   
_**How come? How come?” — Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby** _

 

_From Africa, his words fluttered back to her on paper, dry as the sand in which he traversed. She scurried into the maze, like a mouse, found a remote place to crouch, and read as twilight bruised her skin all shades of blue and purple._

28 April, 1886, Zanzibar, Africa

Dearest Vanessa,

It is my greatest wish at present that this missive finds you well. As you are well aware, I am not a man who prays, but I do pray you are in good health, and that you are finding happiness in your days.

You were not happy when I left. You ought to know, I wore your sorrow like a great, woolen overcoat that had been mightily soaked with your tears. Do you know how heavy it was to wear your tears, and how hot indeed. The sun did nothing to dry them and I ached with the knowledge that I’d caused you discontent. Never have I started a journey with such an anchor as that of your sad, pale face, and your tears on my back. Smile now for me darling, and soothe my selfish, savage heart. Do not forget me, but do not miss me so horribly either. Relieve this weary traveller of his tremendous burden, and you will find him forever in your debt.

It gives me pleasure to imagine you reading a book in a gentle beam of sun, or dancing in the gardens with Peter and Mina. Love them for me, but never let them know, of course. There are days when our travels settle into a monotonous rhythm and my thoughts drift to you, walking in the maze and tickling the hedgerow with your pretty fingers. Do you remember our special spot? I think of it often. I think of the rose in your hair, the taste of jam on your lips, the way your skin felt softer than any petal I’d ever touched. Do you go there now, I wonder, and think of me? Or have you found an elegant young fellow eager to court and please you and keep you company?

You will want to know, undoubtedly, of the trials and tribulations we have faced. To be certain, there is much that would be unfitting to tell a young lady, and it is this subject matter of which you will want to hear most of all. This knowledge makes me laugh, even as your parents would pale with horror. But I will attempt to regale you with a tale or two, a paltry reward for your patient devotion as it were. I imagine this pleases you? Have I not known you well, my young friend?

Several weeks ago, I had a black bug in my ear. The bugger burrowed in so deep I thought I would want to carve him out with my own knife! But my manservant was able to extract the thing and I narrowly escaped a difficult fate. There are insects here the size of your fist, and we’ve seen snakes that are as thick around as your lovely thigh. Although I should specify the reptiles are not nearly as lovely as your leg. . .

Would you believe it is actually quite chill here at night? By day we drown in our own perspirations, but once the sun sets, we huddle by the fire and shiver until it is time to hunker in our tents and sleep. There are frogs and insects here so noisy at night they would overcome an entire orchestra. Sleep has been more elusive for me on this trip than usual, but not only because I have been so very cold, and no, not because of the frogs. It is as though another strange noise keeps me awake, a pulsation that is not at all un-comforting and in fact gives me a sense of tremendous connection to you. Could it be, somehow, I hear the beat of your heart in my own ears? As though we are not truly worlds away, but as though I lay my very head on your very breast and listen to the life flow through your body? Could this be possible, do you think? How is it, Vanessa, that I feel you, that I sense you brooding with me in the dark?

Yesterday we set out on a new course that brought us through some extreme jungle. Although we could not hear to whom they belonged, we heard drumming in the distance, and our guide did well to keep us far from the musicians as they recognized their rhythm to be one of a well known and vicious tribe to the area. Adventure abounds! I thought I would tell you, and knew you would not be frightened at all. Ah, I can picture your fierce, blue eyes watching me like the night and betraying not a trace of fear.

But you would laugh at me when I tell you this: for days, I stalked a lioness. I wanted her head to display next to the male in my salon at the country house. On the final day, when she was at last in the sights of my rifle, I saw she had two cubs with her. She lounged in tall grass, licking their crowns as they suckled at her. She turned and regarded me, as if to challenge my shot, indeed as if graciously granting me her demise. I could not take the shot. I lowered my weapon and let her be. Something in her gaze transfixed me entirely, although I’ll not tell anyone else of that escapade. Another of our little secrets, yes?

How I wish I could catch your lips twist into a sly smile at that story. What kind of a man have I become that I not only allow, but encourage a woman to laugh at me in such a manner? Only you, though. Only you. Oh, Vanessa, what have you done to this old explorer? It’s a question I ask incessantly, and I cannot answer, but I can say I’ve no regrets, only the anticipation of once again kissing those wicked lips with my own. That is, if you will no longer be so cross, and you will again allow my embraces.

I miss you. Oh, how I miss you. I lie in my lonely, narrow cot, wrapped in the depths of our memories and the deeds that brought us into one another. You burn in me, but not like the small flame of a candle. You smolder in the cavern of my chest like stars. You pulsate in me. My heart beats with the spell of your heart and we are together, even while apart. Could you know how this feels? Dare I ask if you feel it too? And will you allow me to lay my head against your chest and hear once again the precious beat of your heart?

Many of the expedition have taken ill, and a good amount of our provisions were lost in a flash flood. It looks like we shall return from this trip much sooner than anticipated. You must not be worried, however, about your old friend. I shall return, as I always do. Only this time, what shall I bring you, my dear? What secret treasure would your heart desire from this exotic land? Shall I tear from the earth a sapphire to match your eyes? Yes, perhaps that will be just the thing. Or rubies reminiscent of your dazzling lips? Or perhaps a great, thick fur in which to wrap yourself on a damp and frigid winter night as you stand by the window and watch snow falling over the ocean. I enjoy imagining you thusly, wrapped and anointed with decadence I’ve brought you from faraway lands. On our return trip we shall make port at Bombay, where I shall make a close examination of oils and spices that might prove interesting or enchanting to you.

It is late and my lantern is sputtering with what seems to be exhaustion, although it is likely just short on fuel. I must sign off and seal this letter so it can be posted and begin to make its way back to you tomorrow. It will not be too many weeks now before we begin to make our way back to you, having failed yet again at finding the source of the Nile. I expect I should return sometime before Christmas, and won’t that be a joyful time for us all. . .

I remain your dedicated steward of jam and roses and tears. My heart beats and burns in the night for you, ever still, ever yours,

Sir Malcolm Murray.

_Vanessa crushed the pages to her chest. As she’d read, once, twice, three times, and committed the words to her fastidious memory, it had grown dark. She tucked the letter into her dress and stood, stretching her cramped legs in the darkness. The hedges of the maze towered over her and there was very little moonlight, but it did not matter. She’d learned her way out of the maze._

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my dear friend, oceansinmychest for inspiring me with an amazing song that provided some food for thought for this little drabble. xoxo. 
> 
> Also, I did take some details from actual testimony of Victorian exploration to Africa, although it has been very dumbed down as I did not have ample research time. Information was taken from articles online and from the New York Times. Some of my dates and other details have been the result of best guess work, so please forgive if my accuracy is a bit dubious. 
> 
> I absolutely thank anyone who takes the time to read my work, and I live for comments, so please feel free to let me know what you think.


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